


Oasis

by hallahart



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mild Angst, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Short, Spoilers if you squint, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallahart/pseuds/hallahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a battle in the Forbidden Oasis, Lavellan gives Solas a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oasis

**Author's Note:**

> I just recently finished DA:I for the first time and... I just have a lot of feelings, you guys.

Sweat dampened the loose hairs at the back of her neck, darkening them almost to black. Her limbs were always loose and easy after battle; none of the stiff-backed formality she put on sitting on her throne. Even from a distance he could see the sheen on her skin and the flush in her cheeks. 

He looked away.

It hadn’t yet been half a day into their exploration of the deserts surrounding the oasis, and already they had fought dearly for their lives. Twice. And, twice, they had lived. They had closed their fair share of the rifts together, killed their share of demons, yet each time the stench of them unnerved him anew. Blood and rot and something worse, something without a name in this world.  The heat beating down on them without relief made it all the more unpleasant.

But it wasn’t the _smells_ that rattled him, made his sure fingers stumble when they moved to loosen the neck of his tunic. 

Solas was no stranger to the rigors of battle. Being alone, either in the cities or wilds of the world, came with risks. Risks he assumed willingly, even happily, given the alternatives. He was accustomed to watching his own back. What he could not get used to— couldn’t ease himself into— couldn’t even pretend to understand— was the easy camaraderie of their little group, the wordless trust, the surety that if one fell, the rest would rally to them. Unquestioned loyalty.  Not to the Inquisition, a word still too large for what they were. Loyalty to _her_. It was something he hadn’t seen, hadn’t felt, since— since—

Cassandra took a silent swig from her canteen and passed it to Dorian, who took it with a nod of thanks. The magister was quieter here, the proximity of his mad countrymen making him subdued and careful. The heat of the desert likewise dimmed the fire in Cassandra, made her tired. 

He supposed running through the sand in plate mail would tire anyone, even the right hand of the Divine.

Dorian offered Solas the water next, but he shook his head and reached into his own pack and passed a hand over his own flask, willing the sand-hot water to cool with a whispered spell.

Lavellan was staring at something beyond them— not towards the oasis nestled in the cliffs before them but out into the shifting sands of the desert, where the air rippled with heat.  She was massaging her marked hand. He knew it ached after the sharp pain of closing the rifts, a pain she took care to hide, and it was all he could do to not take her hands in his.

A selfish thought. One that would do neither of them any good.

“Drink, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, a hand coming down on Lavellan’s shoulder. Solas could see her flinch from where he stood.

“Sorry, you startled me. I was thinking…”  She shook her head. Ignoring the canteen in Cassandra’s hand, she turned on her heel in one smooth movement to Solas, startling him in turn. Her eyes were so bright, even backlit by the sun. Eyes that were appraising him, her brow furrowed.

She reached behind her, opening her own small pack, and handed him an indeterminate piece of green cloth with a flourish.

He looked at her, then the cloth, then back to her, dumb with surprise. “I, ah…“

She huffed a sigh and brought the cloth to his face. He willed his confusion not to show and then realized what she was fastening around his neck— a hood. She pulled it up to cover his bare head, the fabric smooth and cool against his skin, and fastened it around his neck with a single knot.

“There,” she said, stepping back and eyeing him with satisfaction.  “You might be the most sunburn-prone person I’ve ever seen.  And, believe me, ear burns take _forever_ to heal.”

He felt a little foolish and pulled the hood further over his brow to hide the redness he knew had nothing to do with the sun. Dorian's smug smile-- at this latest addition to his fashion sense, no doubt-- barely registered on the edge of his vision.

The gesture was kind. The easy kindness of someone with no suspicion, with no reason to doubt.

He reached for something clever to say, to dispel this strange mood that had grasped him, but nothing came. He was... tired. “Thank you,” he said at last, soft, and she nodded, her eyes searching.

He turned away to drink from his flask, but it had heated again in the sun, and the water burned down his throat.

“Let’s move on,” Lavellan said after a moment, gesturing towards the cliffs, and he fell into step behind her, unquestioning.


End file.
